by Cready, Gwyn
Take care, man. Falling in love with a spy is a sure bet on disaster.
Yet, why had he thrust her into the one place he absolutely didn’t want her to go, unless somewhere deep within him he didn’t believe she was a spy?
You don’t want to believe it, that’s why. That was her plan.
“I meant you were the idiot,” the general said.
“I realize that, sir.” And perhaps I was.
“Do you know why I’m in the borderlands, Captain? Do you know why Queen Anne sent her best general into this ungodly pen of bloody-minded brutes?”
Given that the seat of the general’s family had been in the north of England for the last three hundred years, albeit in the more “civilized” area of Carlisle, Bridgewater took the “pen” to which the general referred to mean the parts of England close enough to Scotland to share in their brutishness.
“Because you’re the most qualified man to lead this effort, sir.” And it was true. Whatever disagreements Bridgewater had with the man before him—and there were many—he was the most canny, experienced, levelheaded leader the queen’s army had ever produced. He had earned every ribbon on that coat as well as the title he carried, even though he’d been born to that. His remarkable rise from a daring captain to a distinguished general had been followed breathlessly by a youthful Bridgewater and had inspired him to take his own commission when he was old enough.
Which made the fact that Bridgewater intended to betray him all that much harder.
“Exactly,” said the older man. “And when I say to you that the best way, the most efficient way, and the safest way to bring an end to the violence in the borderlands is to move our army over the Scottish border to Langholm, what is your reaction?”
“That you are correct, sir.”
He grabbed Bridgewater by the lapels and jerked him hard. “Damn it, I know that’s not what you think. I know from talking to the boy, Thomas. I know from the note we found on him. You are providing aid to the enemy. Our enemy. England’s enemy.” He flung him loose.
Bridgewater felt ill. Thomas had been captured? He prayed the boy hadn’t been forced to endure the same two-fisted questioning he had.
“Damn that bloody Scots grandfather of yours. Your mother wanted nothing to do with him, you know. What you’re doing goes against everything she would have wanted.”
“Do not talk to me about my mother,” Bridgewater said through clenched teeth. “Ever. You are unworthy of uttering her name.”
PANNA WAS AFRAID TO MOVE, AFRAID to breathe. But the savage edge in Bridgewater’s voice so surprised her, she needed to see his face.
The narrow space into which Bridgewater had shoved her provided access to the back of the bookshelves via wood doors, at least for the length of hallway she could see. As a librarian, this would have driven her crazy, since the spines of the books wouldn’t show, except that someone— Bridgewater? his servant?—had written the name and author of every single book on a label in a fine copperplate hand and stuck them along the shelf, an organizational arrangement she could see because the library’s designer had thoughtfully put a small oval window at eye level in the back of every bookcase. This allowed her or anyone traveling down the hall to see the room over the tops of the books, but given the low light and the small size of the windows, Panna assumed it was considerably harder for someone in the main part of the room to see in. She ducked her head just enough to see.
Bridgewater vibrated with fury, and the general stared him down, as hard-eyed as a panther.
Whatever this was, it was not an army issue, for the general would have surely thrown Bridgewater in the brig, or whatever they called it in the eighteenth century, for that level of insubordination. This was something more personal. Why would Bridgewater object to the general talking about his mother? Had the general insulted her? Arrested her? Stolen her fortune?
And who was Thomas, the boy the general mentioned? Bridgewater’s son? But no, the general would surely have known the boy then. The general talked as if he and Bridgewater shared a relationship beyond that of superior and inferior. In fact, the way the general shouted at him sounded almost exactly like her father used to shout at her—
She froze.
Good God! She looked at the two men, nose to nose in profile. They shared the same leonine eyes, the same broad, slightly bent noses, the same clefts in their chins—why, even the way they stood with balled fists at their sides was identical. She nearly laughed. The resemblance was impossible to deny. But it was the attitude with which they confronted each other that in Panna’s mind argued for a relationship closer than general and officer.
Panna had two older brothers, one an insurance agent and one a Marine captain in Afghanistan, both great guys. Her father was gone now—both her parents were—but during her teen years her brothers had tried their father’s patience to the point that Panna thought one, two, or all three of them would have to move out of the house. The anger and resentment in the eyes of the men before her certainly seemed to have the same look and feel to it.
Was Bridgewater, the future Earl of Bridgewater, staring down his father, the current earl? Panna would have been willing to bet her 401(k) on it.
The general brushed off his coat. “You look a fool, Captain. Pressing your suit to me like a common bounder—”
“I do not want your money,” Bridgewater said with unrivaled fury. “I have my own. More than I could ever need.”
The general looked around. “The ruins of a castle do not exactly spell grandeur. And the servants cannot feed themselves if their master is in prison.”
“I make something,” Bridgewater said. “Something that people can use. Something that comes from my own hands, my own mind. What have noblemen like you ever made?”
“Peace!” He slammed his fist against the wall, and a nearby painting jiggled. “And war! When we choose! At our discretion! This is 1706, Captain. We are no longer mired in the dark ages of our ancestors, forced to endure what God sends our way. We fashion the world into something of our choosing. That is what noblemen do.”
Bridgewater said nothing, and the emotion on his face settled a bit. The men were slipping back into their professional relationship, one that was apparently no less rocky than their private one, but one that Bridgewater could endure with some level of stoicism, at least.
Panna was fascinated. Why was it that being sucked into other people’s family problems always seemed juicier and less harrowing than dealing with one’s own? All she needed was a bowl of popcorn and a remote to feel like she was watching The Real House Husbands of Northern England. Then she remembered the pain in Bridgewater’s eyes and felt a twinge of guilt.
“The note was in your handwriting,” the general said. “‘Langholm, ten o’clock.’ Do you deny it?”
“I do not. I told the colonel I do not. Tis not illegal to write the name of a Scottish town.”
“Damn it, you know full well that’s the time and place of the army’s intended attack tonight!”
“How would I know that, General? You have never shared your battle plans with your men prior to a battle, and insofar as I know, you did not do so today.”
“Then it’s sheer coincidence that a note in your handwriting, detailing the time and place of tonight’s attack, was found in the pocket of a street urchin with whom you have been known to consort?”
“He is not a street urchin. His father is a carpenter. And the note you found was given to him by me to remind him where and when to look to find the butcher’s cleaver tonight.”
The butcher’s cleaver? A snippet of that creepy Lizzie Borden song played in her head. Why would Bridgewater be telling a boy where to find such a thing?
“Butcher’s cleaver?” the elder Bridgewater repeated, incredulous.
“Aye. In the direction of Langholm, sir. At ten o’clock.”
The older man threw up his hands in disgust. He took two steps toward the door and returned, jabbing a finger in his son’s chest. �
�If the army encounters a single armed Scot in Langholm tonight, you will be tried as a traitor and hanged.”
Hanged? Any relationship to a television show had vanished. And if they hanged the son of an earl, what would they do to a woman with an unrecognizable accent found in his room? Fear tightened its hold on her. She needed to get back to the chapel, and she needed to do it soon.
“I’ve tried to help,” the general said. “But if the Scots have nosed out our surprise attack, there won’t be a bloody god-damned thing I or anybody else can do to save you.”
The face of the younger Bridgewater barely moved. “You have certainly done everything a commanding officer could do for a man.”
His father made a furious noise, turned sharply on his heel, and started walking directly toward Panna. She was so surprised, she nearly stumbled. Panicked, she began to move farther down the hallway, gathering her skirts to quiet them and keeping her head low enough to be hidden from the little windows.
The general reached the bookcase and turned, continuing in the same direction as Panna. He shook his head as if he were trying to sort out the difference between the man he thought he knew and the traitor who stood behind him. “You’re a good officer,” he said. “One of the best I’ve seen. Why would you throw it away to help the—”
The general paused. Had he seen her? Heard her? She reached the corner, turned down the hallway that ran parallel to the wall with the hearth and stopped, her heart pounding in her throat. She stretched her neck to peek from the nearest peephole.
Bridgewater was looking right at her, eyes flashing with irritation.
There was nothing I could do, she telegraphed back, equally irritated. You have enough of a mess to clean up with your father. Don’t waste your time blaming me for forcing you to reveal the existence of your secret passageway.
Within this narrow hallway was a rickety staircase going up, and Panna realized that an identical hidden passageway must circle the second floor of bookcases. She wondered if the stairs led anywhere else, offering a safe way to enter and exit when you didn’t want the prying eyes of the castle upon you.
The general stopped right in front of her and made an interested grunt. Had he seen her? He was so close she could see the medals on his red coat. Sweat gathered between her shoulder blades.
“What’s this?” the general demanded.
Every muscle vibrated with the desire to run, but Panna held herself still.
“What do you mean?” Bridgewater said carefully.
“Do you see this? Come here.”
Bridgewater made his way to the bookcase.
“There.”
“Sir?” Bridgewater bent to see what his father was pointing at. She could see the blond blur of his head and the dark pools of his eyes when they met hers.
“Is that my copy of Caesar’s Gallic Wars?”
Panna was so relieved she nearly moaned.
“Aye, sir. I believe it is.” Bridgewater unlocked the case and slid the book out. “I beg your pardon. I thought I had returned it.”
“Well . . . I do want you to have it. Tis something I would want all my officers to have.”
Bridgewater bowed. “Thank you.”
The general returned to his path around the room, and a jolt of electricity went through Panna. If he continued in the same direction, he would eventually come to the gate-leg table Reeves had set up—the same gate-leg table upon which the empty soup bowl sat. Panna didn’t understand the tangle of loyalties and betrayals that had been revealed this evening, but she knew with utter certainty that no good could come of Bridgewater’s father seeing the words etched on the bottom of the bowl.
Panna’s mind flew though her limited options. She could scream, but drawing attention to herself would likely have serious repercussions for her as well as Bridgewater. Dropping a book on the general’s head from an upper-level bookcase, even one the size of a Gutenberg Bible, probably wouldn’t knock him out unless she was very lucky. The only viable option seemed to be doing something with the table itself. But the general stood within sight of it.
Bridgewater’s gaze burned into her back, but she had no time to worry. Inhaling deeply, she squeezed past the hearth, crushing her breasts as she rounded the corner. It was pitch-black, and she stumbled over something on the floor, slapping her palm against the bricks of the hearth to catch herself and sending a spray of detritus into the empty hearth.
Panna held her breath so long that she thought she might faint.
“Good Lord,” the general said at last. “It sounds as if the pigeons have taken roost.”
In an instant, she was around the other corner of the hearth and behind the bookcase which had held Animals of the Orient. The little table where Bridgewater had eaten was directly in front of her. The front door of the bookcase was still ajar, and she reached for the handle on the back. She was in luck. While Bridgewater had installed locks on the cabinet doors facing the room, he’d left the doors that faced the hidden passageway unsecured. She opened it slowly. She could see the general crouched at the hearth, his back to her, gazing up the chimney with Bridgewater at his side. Bridgewater’s eyes were on her and his face was lined with strain.
With the Chinese foo dog statue to block her from view, she slide her arm through the space left by the books that had been removed. Bridgewater became increasingly pale as he watched her.
The general grunted and made a move to stand.
“Do you suppose it’s a matter of poor masonry?” Bridgewater asked suddenly, laying a staying hand on his father’s arm.
“I hardly think so. Twas done by Matthew Francis himself. He was the best mason between here and York. No man would argue with that.”
She grabbed the lip of the table and flipped.
Crash.
The table hit the hearth and the bowl shattered. Panna jerked back into the darkness as fast as she could and closed the case with her foot.
“Damn it,” Bridgewater said. “This happened a week ago, and Reeves said he’d had the leg repaired. No. Stay where you are. I’ll take care of it.”
Panna grinned. Who says librarians aren’t resourceful?
SEVEN
WHEN THE GENERAL FINALLY EXITED AFTER A SECOND ROUND OF frustrated fatherly exhortation, Panna pulled herself to her feet and headed back toward the stairs. She had barely emerged from the path around the hearth when she ran into Bridgewater, who was carrying a lit candle.
“I didn’t know—”
“Quiet,” he commanded.
He dragged her up the stairs, around the hearth and to the end of the upper passageway. He leaned on the bricks there, and a door, completely hidden from view, opened, revealing a small room. Like the window seats, the space extended from the side of the castle and had looming windows on three sides. In fact, Panna could see into the bow windows of the library. There were satchels heaped in the corner, some empty crates, a telescope on a tripod, a small desk, and a map on the wall from which ribbons holding pencils hung. Bridgewater put the candle on the desk.
“What does ‘They know’ mean?” she demanded. “Who are ‘they’?”
“None of your business.” He shoved her against the wall, looking hard into her eyes. The light from the sunset lit his hair a devil’s red. “Who are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“A spy?”
“No,” she said, offended. “I helped you.”
“Who are you?”
“Panna Kennedy. My name is Panna Kennedy.”
“And what are you doing in my castle?”
“I’m visiting.”
“Visiting?” His fingers dug into her flesh. “From where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You’ll tell me or you’ll wish you had.”
“From the future.”
His face went blank. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he laughed and let go. “That is the poorest lie I’ve ever heard. If you’re a spy, you’re a bloody awful one.” He lifted
her chin with a finger. “If you are a spy, however, I will find you when this is over, and you will live to regret it.”
“I’m not a spy,” she said hotly, flinging her chin free. “Would a spy have saved your sorry ass in there?”
He lifted a brow. “Perhaps your goal is to earn my trust.”
“Perhaps my goal is to earn a thank-you.”
He straightened, half-abashed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
There was something about being in such a small space with Bridgewater, and the electricity between them was raising the hair on her arms. He could be both charming and dangerous, and Panna found herself unsure which half of him was standing in the fading light with her.
“Panna?” His eyes continued their sharp appraisal. “What sort of a name is that?”
“My real name is Pandora.”
He snorted. “Well, you’ve certainly been well named. This passageway is one of my most important secrets. You couldn’t have picked a more inconvenient place to discover.” He slipped off his officer’s coat and loosened his stock, then withdrew a nondescript coat, a knife, and a pistol belt from one of the satchels.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Are you going to try to beat the army to Langholm?”
“Do you think that’s where they’re going, Mrs. Kennedy?” He pulled off his stained shirt, revealing a torso of well-hewn muscle.
“Your father said—”
“My father?”
Had she been mistaken? They looked so much alike. “He said the army would attack Langholm tonight.”
“Tis indeed what he said.” Bridgewater slipped on a dark shirt and buttoned it. Then he drew the belt low around his hips.
“But you don’t believe it?”
He didn’t answer. She tried a different tack. “What about the boy?”
